The formal address wrapped in that half submission, half fuck you tone makes me clench my jaw.
She's baiting me.
In my kitchen. During service.
I shouldn’t be looking at her mouth.
And yet, my gaze keeps drifting back to it. That soft curve of herlower lip, the faint pout she gets when she’s concentrating. It pulls at my attention in a way that feels dangerously close to distraction.
I drag my focus away.
Too much.
I want to close the distance to her. I want to dig my teeth into that soft lower lip of hers and suck on it.
I want to… I need to shut this down and focus on the upcoming service. It’s my Michelin stars at stake.
I clear my throat.
“Next time you try to top from the bottom, I’m going to haul you into my office and spank your arse until you can’t sit down for days.”
Her jaw drops. She seems at a loss for words. Seeing the heart-shaped opening of her mouth threatens to disrupt my thoughts again.
Woman is more dangerous than a minefield.
There’s a clattering noise. Orders spew out of the printer at the pass. It clears the sexual haze in my head and brings me back to the present.
I spin around and head toward my station.
“Fire two beef, one venison,” I call. “Table eight. Walking in three.”
"Last order!Table twenty-three. Two venison medium-rare, one duck, one vegetarian tasting."
"Yes, Chef." The response from the team carries an unmistakable note of exhaustion.
I watch her plate the final dishes. Her movements are slower now, less precise. But still acceptable. Still my standard.
Within minutes, the venison goes up. I check it. Perfect gradient of rose to mahogany. Rare in the center, charred crust outside. The jus has the right consistency. Coats the back of the spoon with a glossy sheen.
I could find something wrong. There's always something that could be improved.
But it's been a long night.
"Service!" I call.
The kitchen erupts in a collective exhale.
The tension that’s held us rigid like wired puppets all through the evening dissolves.
With an audible sigh of relief, the team begins to clean up the kitchen. The scent of seared meat and reduced wine gives way to that of the acidic bite of bleach. The clinking of spoons against vessels is replaced by the sizzle of hot water on still warm grills and the scrubbing of brushes against counters.
I organize the night’s tickets to review later, note any delays, any mistakes that need addressing tomorrow. My attention, though, keeps drifting to the meat station.
She’s scraping down the flattop. The metal spatula makes harsh sounds against carbonized residue. Her shoulders are slumped with exhaustion. She's been on her feet for six hours straight. Handled two stations. Didn't falter once.
Her skull cap is askew. There's a grease stain on her whites. She’s never seemed more beautiful.
When I see the burn across her forearm, something inside me tightens. It’s par for the course in our line of business. We chefs wear our scars like a badge of honor. But this isn’t just another normal member of my team. She’s my wife.
